


Fingerprint

by spookywords



Category: Original Work, The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Babysitting, Brahms appears for the first time, Creepy, F/M, Horror, Reader wants to leave but she can't, haunted doll - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23788981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookywords/pseuds/spookywords
Summary: Reader finally meets the ghost living in the house.
Relationships: Brahms Heelshire & Reader, Brahms Heelshire & You, Brahms Heelshire/Reader, Brahms Heelshire/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

Brahms is sitting on the desk while you choose what book to read next.

It has come to your attention that not many of the volumes on the list the Heeshires left are particularly aimed for children, doll or not, you certainly wouldn’t read “The Count of Monte Cristo” to your own children.

“I’m bored,” you tell him. “We’ve read these books many times before. Wouldn’t you rather read something else? I know I would.”

Obviously, the doll doesn’t answer you. You look at its face, there’s something on it that catches your attention. A fingerprint.

You come closer to him, you put your fingers under his armpits and bring him closer to your face. You frown. The fingerprint does _not_ belong to you, your thumb isn’t that big.

Your heart drums in your chest, almost painfully. That dusty mark is not yours.

You look behind your back, knowing it is silly but you still do. You’ve felt eyes on you since breakfast, you told yourself it’s normal. Brahms is watching you, you know that. But it still makes a shiver run down your back.

“Well, I guess it’s time for a shower.”

It’s not exactly a shower. You take Brahms to the kitchen where you go after a cloth. You put him on the table and sit down. You press the cloth onto his face. His shiny, still eyes watch you clean him.

“Who are you?” You whisper, maybe you shouldn’t ask.

“Why don’t we go for a walk? A little walk outside might clear our thoughts.”

It’s become natural to speak out loud. Your stay there has taught you that you’re not really alone.

Brahms is in your arms. On your way to the front door, your eyes find the phone. You haven’t heard from the Heeshires in a while. You chew on the inside of your cheek. If you had people at your place, you’d want to check on them.

The doll remains in your arm as you manage the phone with the other hand. You dial their number but no one answers.

“Your parents must be busy,” you tell Brahms after leaving them a message, asking them to call you back. Again.

The cool wind tangles your hair. You consider going inside to dress Brahms in something warmer but you think again.

You walk slowly down the steps in front of the house and follow to the back. You found a nice trail the other day.

You feel free outside the house. You hold Brahms close.

You stay outside for almost thirty minutes, enjoying the wind on your face. On the way back, you feel eyes on you. You look up at the house, you think you see a shadow lurking behind one of the windows. It comes to you that maybe the whole house is haunted, not only the doll.

You’ve thought about your life once you leave this job. You’ve spent a few weeks with the doll, and just like now, Brahms has always been close to your body. You wonder if the ghost will follow you when you return home.

You shake your head, going inside. That’s when you hear it. With your hand still on the handle of the door, you stop, you listen.

The sound is soft, you barely hear it. You put Brahms down to check it out. As you suspected, a little kitten is there, hiding behind a chair on the porch. You look at the horizon, wondering how this creature got here.

“Brahms, look!” You take the cat in your hand, your fingers wrap around its soft, small body. Its fur is white. You don’t know if its a male or female, the cat meows softly. It must be one month, not even that.

“How did you get here?”

There’s no sign of the mother or other kittens. The cat is gentle and doesn’t struggle as you take it inside with you. You put it down on the carpet so you can get Brahms. You sit the doll in a chair by the door, your attention on the little cat.

“We have a little friend,” you tell him, bringing the cat to the hook of your arm.

“I think it’s a boy,” you say, trying to identify the kitten. “We shall name him-”

The sound of something cracking startles you. It comes from the kitchen. You end up startling the cat, too.

“I’m sorry!” You say, mostly to the house, to Brahms. You turn to the doll, eyes widened. “What’s the matter?”

You don’t want to check the kitchen. You know you will find nothing there. Still, you take slow steps, the kitten close to your heart. You find a pan out of place. You don’t put it back in place. When you go back to Brahms, you find him on the ground.

“It’s just a cat!” You yell. “This house is big enough for all of us!”

You are scared but you are also angry. You put the kitten on the sofa, you create a little fort of pillows around it so it will stay there while you decide what to do next.

Brahms is back in your arms and you climb upstairs to his room, two steps at a time. You sit him in a chair.

“Time out for you!”

You bang the door shut, not thinking of the consequences. Enough is enough.

You go back downstairs to your kitten but you don’t find him there. You look under the sofa, you look around the room, you check every little corner of the floor. You search for it around the house, it can’t possibly go upstairs, it’s too little so you stay on the first ground. Tears prick your eyes.

“Brahms!” Is all you scream, defeated. Your knees reach the ground and you weep. That’s not fair. Maybe the cat is hidden, too well for you to find him. But you looked! You looked for him everywhere.

You pay Brahms no mind for the rest of the evening. The house was silent, the little cat nowhere to be found. You make dinner and eat, appetite long gone.

You shower and you are about to go under the blankets when a voice in your head tells you to go see Brahms. You shake and brace for whatever the ghost has in store for you that night.

You loose a breath when you stand in front of Brahm’s bedroom. _Courage_ , you tell yourself.

You open the door and you hold your breath. Brahms is where you left him that afternoon, sitting in his chair. The only thing that changed was the little fur ball on his lap. The kitten isn’t moving.

You stride into the room, heart pounding in your ears.

“What have you done?!”

You touch the kitten, you try to find its little pulse. The cat isn’t breathing. He’s dead.

Tears run freely down your cheeks. You look from Brahms and to the kitten and then back again. You slowly put the cat down, your eyes never leave the doll.

That’s it. You’ve had enough. You run to your bedroom, closing the door behind you and getting your suitcase from under the bed. Your purse is already packed, passport and money inside. You just need to shove the rest of your clothing inside, you’d already packed a couple of weeks ago, when you thought you couldn’t make it in a silent, haunted house. Only a few pair of shirts and jeans remain in the wardrobe. You don’t care about the way you put them inside, you even sit on your luggage to close it.

You sniff, quickly looking around the room to see if you aren’t leaving anything behind. It isn’t like you’d brought anything important anyway.

You are one step close to the door when you hear it.

“Don’t go.”

You scream. It’s the first time you hear a voice. The voice. Brahms’s voice.

He’s in the room, you know it. A shiver runs down your spine, goosebumps raise the hair on your arms.

“Please, leave me alone!”

Your hand is on the handle of the door, but it won’t open. It’s locked.

You try again, you can feel your pulse on your temple.

“Don’t go,” he says again, this time speaking your name. The voice is similar to a child’s, soft and pleading. But it doesn’t make you forget about the dead cat on the doll’s lap.

“I have to!” You let go of the door, you eye the window. “I can’t do this anymore!”

How many times have you told yourself that? It isn’t the first time Brahms does something unnaturally bad. You never thought it was possible for a haunted doll to be so harmful. All those horror movies you’ve watched can’t be real, dolls can’t move on their own, even if possessed. That’s simply impossible.

You go to the window. Darkness greets you. If you jump, you will break a leg. There’s no way your bones won’t hurt if you really jump out of the window from the second floor. You need your legs to run. But you also need to get out of the room.

“What do you want?”

“Stay,” Brahms says, he softly purrs your name. Are you really hearing him talk or is it just a voice in your head? Maybe staying alone in the big house has made you go crazy.

“You know I can’t! You hurt that kitten, you can hurt me, too.”

“I won’t. I’ll be good.”

You shut your mouth. You are trembling. You reach for the phone on the nightstand by your bed. There’s no line, it’s dead.

“Oh, God.”

You try the door again. Surprisingly, it opens. You grab your suitcase and purse, you put it around your body and run to the stairs. Your luggage makes noises as you drag it down the stairs. You’re breathing through your mouth when you reach the bottom.

Your heartbeat increases as you take in the shadow near the front door. You find yourself frozen on spot. You can’t move.

It’s the first time you see the shape of the ghost. You can’t see his face nor the rest of him because he’s hiding in the shadows but you can make the shape of his body. Brahms is tall and broad.

Your scream is locked in your throat. The luggage will slow you down if you run to the back door with it. It’s dark outside and if you can’t see, he won’t see either if he comes after you.

_Run._

But your feet won’t move. Brahms doesn’t move, either.

He speaks your name, that same childish voice, unfit of a man the size of him.

“Brahms.”

It makes sense now. Dolls, possessed ones, can’t do the things you’ve witnessed in the last weeks. Dolls can’t kill kittens.

“Don’t go.”

What are you doing? You should be running away.

“Don’t go,” he says again, this time taking a step forward. “I’ll be good.”

You’ve heard that before. His face remains hidden in the shadows, but that is when it comes to you that he’s wearing a mask. Brahms’s face, the doll’s face is hiding the man’s underneath it. It creepies you out. No doubt Mr. and Mrs. Heelshire aren’t picking up the phone. They trapped you in the house with a man, with Brahms, flesh and bones Brahms.

You decide it is time to go.

The kitchen is behind you, you shove the luggage and run.

Brahms calls you, his voice deeper this time.

You get to the door but you can’t open it. A bang sounds beneath your head. You look up, a broad hand is pressed on the surface of the door. You can’t open it, Brahms is blocking you.

The hair all over your body raise, you pant for air. Fearing the worst now, you stay still, feeling the warmth of his body behind you.

“Don’t go.” It’s the child speaking again.

“Don’t hurt me,” you beg. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

“I’ll be good if you promise to be good.”

“I promise,” you lie. You turn slowly, facing him.

He keeps the hand above your head and puts the other near your head, he towers over you. The smell of sweat is strong, there’s something else you can’t quite name. He’s too close.

“You can’t leave.”

“I won’t,” you find it easy to look at the mask. You’ve grown used to the doll, you’re staring at its human version. “Just let me go.”

He doesn’t answer you, he doesn’t move. You stare at his eyes and he looks back at you.

Your chest heavens, it almost touches him.

“I…” You lick your lips, you try to think of a way to get you out of there, or at least to get him out of your way. He’s too close.

“Yes?”

“Are you hungry?” Your dinner tonight was a simple sandwich, you didn’t leave anything behind, you didn’t put any other food away in the fridge. With your heart calming, many things start to make sense to you. You’ve been living with a man in the house, not a ghost. No, you think again. He’d never showed himself before, you thought there was a ghost in the house and you were right. _He_ ’s the ghost.

“Starving.”

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader must convince Brahms she won’t run away. He wants something more than a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 is up!  
> I hope you enjoy it! ;-)

You fix him a sandwich. Easy enough. You find the ingredients. Your hands are shaking as you make him a filling snack.

Your back is to him. Every cell in your body pays attention to the man behind you. He’s taken a seat by the table, where the doll usually sat. Your lips are quivering. You don’t want to cry, but you shed some tears in silence. None fall on his sandwich, though.

“Don’t cry,” he pleads softly.

You want to cry even more, but it’s not the time for that. You need to run.

His sandwich is on the plate you used earlier for your own sandwich.

You try to smile as you bring it to him, you really do. You’re about to put the plate on the table when you find yourself throwing it at him. You don’t see where it hits, you don’t care if it hurts. You run.

You don’t even care about your luggage. You need to get out of the house, that’s your goal. You hear his chair fall hard on the ground and you know, oh, you know Brahms is behind you.

You’re almost at the door. You can feel his fingers on your ponytail. He almost got you. You move fast, putting the sofa between you.

Brahms is big. He’s intimidating. It’s not even about the porcelain mask. The man frightens you. The idea of a ghost made you feel uneasy, but the man has your legs shaking. You know he’s real and he can hurt you, that's why he terrifies you.

“What do you want from me?”

He doesn’t move and you remain where you are. You can see him considering his options and you consider yours. Maybe you should have behaved, waited for him to eat. Or not. He might have killed you after eating, maybe he couldn’t do that on an empty stomach.

He says your name. It sends shivers down your spine. “You shouldn’t have done that.” Now is the man talking. “You promised.”

You know. Oh, you know. You swallow hard, wishing you could rewind and go back to the kitchen. You’d feed him yourself. There’s no room for regrets now.

“What choice do I have? You will kill me anyway!”

“I won’t kill you.”

“Keeping me in this house might be the same thing.”

“You can’t leave!” He raises his voice. You blink. “You’ll come back with me. You’ll sit with me while I eat.”

“How old are you?” You don’t really want to know. “You can’t keep me here against my will!”

“I chose you,” he purrs your name. “I’ll keep you here with me for as long as I want.”

There it is. The man. Your fear.

“You will let me go, Brahms. You scare me. You killed the kitten,” you realise tears are falling from your eyes. “I can be next.”

“You won’t be.”

“Can you promise that?”

“If you behave,” his voice is softer.

“Things are different now. My job was to take care of Brahms, uh, I mean the doll.”

“You’ll keep doing what you’ve done so far.”

“Are you serious? What makes you think I won't run away?” Maybe it’s stupid to ask such a thing, but you don’t have anything else to lose.

“We’ll go back to what we were.”

“It can’t be that simple,” you shake your head, hugging yourself.

“It is,” he stretches his hand out to you. The sofa is still between the two of you.

You look at the door, your heart sinks in your chest. There will be another chance, you can’t let go of hope just yet. Your gaze returns to him. You stare at the mask. You can see Brahms breathing, his chest rises and falls rather fast. He’s nervous, you notice. Not as nervous as you, you’re sure.

You don’t take the direction towards the door. You walk slowly towards him. You take his hand. His touch is cold, his big fingers wrap around your hand, caging it like a beartrap. His grip hurts but you don’t take your hand away.

“And you will follow the rules.”

“Yes.”

“Promise.” His words come out muffled, as if he’s grinding his teeth behind the mask.

“I promise.”

“You need to do much more than that.”

He yanks you towards him. You bump against him, you bring your hands up to embrace for impact. He pulls both of them and put them on his shoulder.

“There’s something I want you to do.”

His hands slowly make their way to your waist, they stay firmly there. You feel butterflies in your stomach and you know it’s not the good kind.

“Kiss me.”

He tilts his head, but doesn’t come forward. He wants you to kiss him.

On your tiptoes, you approach your lips to those on the mask.

You can do it.

It will be simple and fast.

“No.”

“No? Isn’t that what you want?”

“Like mommy and daddy.”

“You want me to kiss you? _Your_ lips?” It sounds dumb, but you need to be sure.

He nods, giggling.

He removes his hands from your waist while yours remain on his strong shoulders.

"Close your eyes."

He's about to remove his mask. You do as you're told. You can't see, but you can feel him taking it off and putting it on the sofa. You can also feel his breath on you.

You’re on fire. You can’t believe it. You’re about to kiss him.

You want to look at him, but if you do without him saying you can, you're afraid things can get more complicated than that. You feel sick like you would before a presentation and now it’s your turn. You squeeze your fingers on his shoulders, you’re glad you’re attached to him otherwise your knees wouldn’t keep you up.

"Don't look."

His hands return on your body. You are once again on your tiptoes. The room isn’t entirely silent, you can hear your heartbeats so loud on your ears you don’t really know if it’s his or yours. Or both. You sense him holding his breath when your lips brush his.

He brings you closer when your lips touch. You’re kissing him. You’re kissing Brahms. Not the ghost. The man. You kiss him once, you kiss him twice. You want to stare when your heels are on the ground again, but you don't.

“Again.”

He has no intention of letting go of you just yet.

You kiss him again, this time your lips press longer on his. You need to please him now so this can all end soon. You use your tongue, you trace the seam of his lips with the tip. He kisses you right back, squeezing you. His arms embrace you passionately. It could even be romantic if the situation were different.

You can feel his erection through his pants, pressing on your belly. Maybe the tongue was a bit too much.

“I promise I won’t go,” you say when you take a step back.

“I’m not convinced.”

He pulls you closer. You can smell his sweat, you can hear his breath, and you can feel his need.

You kiss him again, trying to give him what he wants. Your hands move to his face and you pull him down a little. You kiss the corners of his mouth. You pull on his lower lip.

You even moan. Being this close to him is doing things to your body. He answers your kiss with the same passion. Yours is survival, his is a need. You will never admit that he is a good kisser. You try to pretend you don’t feel his hands getting a little too low with the growing intensity of your kisses.

Brahms wears a mask to conceal his face, but he isn’t shy about being too loud. Some of the kisses are wet and loud. He’s desperate as if he thinks he’ll never kiss again. You, for that matter.

You’re both out of air.

“I won’t run again,” you pant when his forehead touches yours. “You haven’t eaten. I’ll make you something else.”

"Wait," he tells you. You remain still, hearing him move around to put his mask back on. You peek when he sighs. You watch the fast movements of his chest as he catches his breath.

“No, it’s time for bed now.”

You freeze where you stand, wondering if you heard him correctly. Bed? He had said earlier that you were going back to the kitchen to eat, but now he seems to have other plans. You felt him before,and a quick glare assures you he’s still turned on.

Brahms doesn’t move. His gaze on you is intense.

You think. His voice is sweet, childish. He wasn’t being malicious, though you can’t ignore the innuendo, especially after the intense kissing session.

“You’re right,” you swallow, carefully weighing your next words, “it’s late. We should get some sleep.”

You take one of his hands and go to the staircase.

You drag him upstairs, his grip on you is strong even though it’s you who is guiding him. You will only get rid of his hand when he decides so.

You stop in front of his bedroom. Your hand is locked in his bigger one. You turn to him.

“Here we are,” you smile.

“Wrong."

You stare at his eyes, trying to read something there. His voice doesn’t tell you much now.

“Your bed.”

“No, Brahms. You're old enough to sleep on your own bed.”

He’s a step closer.

“Your bed,” he repeats, every word echoing like two thumps in your head. He squeezes your hand a bit too hard.

It’s his time to guide you to where he wants you to be.

You’re shaking.

He brings you inside your room.

You need to be strong.

“Please,” you whisper.

Brahms lets go of your hand and pulls the covers to the edge of the bed.

“Come to bed,” he whispers back, so sweet, so caring.

“We can’t,” you say, this time louder. _Think_ , you tell yourself, _think_! “What... What would your parents say if they found us in bed together?”

“You’re being naughty,” he tells you, you can hear him smile as he says your name, “you’re having naughty thoughts, are you not?”

“No,” you brush him off, kicking your shoes with the heels of your feet. You want to tell him to shower before coming to bed, but you have worse worries than his hygiene.

“We're just going to sleep tonight,” he says.

Tomorrow could be a different story. You shouldn’t think about it now. You should be grateful that you’ve been given another chance. Another chance to think of a better plan of escape.

The bed shakes with his weight. Sleep. You won't get any tonight, or the following days, not until you’re back home.

The bed is big enough for both of you, but even so you have to stay close to him in order not to fall out of bed. You stare at the ceiling, your body is frozen while your thoughts are running wild. Brahms moves around and you hear a click on his side, you don’t look straight at him, but you know he’s taken off his mask.

The bed cracks, he can't keep still. You can feel his warmth, he puts an arm behind your head. You’re supposed to use it as a pillow.

“It feels good,” he sighs. “We’re finally together.”

You can feel his breath on top of your head, it also brushes the side of your face.

“We can be like this forever,” he whispers as he snakes his other arm around your belly. You're ticklish even with your clothes on, but you’re glad you didn’t jump when you felt his touch. His arm stays there.

Brahms falls asleep before you, or so you think. His fingers are wrapped in your hair and his other arm is a heavy weight on your middle. You can’t move. You feel trapped, like he wants you to.

You can rest for now. The next day is going to be a long day, you can feel it in your bones. You will need all the strength you can get if you want to think of a plan to escape.

 ****You’re going home even if that’s the last thing you do.


End file.
